It hurts, if you’re interested.
It seethes, it stinks, it stings,
It writhes, it wounds, it curls,
It locks a vice grip on my swollen heart.
I’ve got no one to talk to
But my no-good, shot-down, beat-up,
Sickened sense of self,
In a bell jar with my name on it
And the air is getting thin.
Dead on a wire, dial tone beats
And heartstrings made of glass--
Drowning, bleeding, suffocating
In equal parts per serving.
I am your hesitation.
I am your half truth.
I am my own undoing.
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